An Arts-Filled, Tasty And Sometimes-Loopy Jaunt Through Life

Some people think big. Big hopes, big dreams and big efforts to make those hopes and dreams come true. Me, not so much. I think modest at best, small more often than not. It’s just my basic nature, and always has been.

My great pal Alan, though, has a different opinion about my abilities. For example, he has urged me a few times to write a book. He, one of the handful of faithful who to my amazement truly seem to enjoy at least some of the stories I’ve been lobbing into cyberspace via this blog, believes I have it in me to design and bring forth a thriller. He has suggested that the plot be set on Cape Cod, a region I know well. Alan is a dreamer. Does he have any idea how I often strain and sweat like the King Of Constipation to squeeze out a blog entry of a mere 1,000 or so words? Alan, if you’re reading this, believe me when I say that daily doses of Dulcolax wouldn’t make those articles emerge any easier. So, a book, you say? Hey, man, are you joking? My inner strength and energies would have to quadruple before I’d be able even to begin entertaining the notion. Basically, fuhgeddaboudit.

Hmmm, on the other hand maybe I speaketh too hastily. I often do. No doubt writing a book is an alluring idea. Could it be that Alan is on to something? Has he peered deep into my core, à la Superman, and spotted an alternative me? As in the bestselling me. The me whose tightly wrought and pulsating fictional offering projects me into television and radio studios presided over by the likes of Charlie Rose, Terry Gross and Jimmy Fallon. Yeah man, I can dig it! Who wouldn’t? I mean, the royalty checks will be pouring in. The invitations to swank A-list parties will arrive by the dozens. Gorgeous girls will mob me on the streets. Yeah, I definitely can dig it.

OK, Alan, you’ve convinced me. The book is within me. Somewhere. I think. All I have to do is birth it. What should the first step be? Oh right, there needs to be a plot. Well, in that regard I’ll try not to think about what another of my great pals Dave once said. He and I went to high school with Arthur Agatston, who years later became famous as the author of The South Beach Diet books. Dave was wowed by Arthur’s success. “Neil, I’d write a book too,” Dave said to me back then, “except for one thing: I’ve got nothing to say.”

Ouch! Like I mentioned I’ll try not to think about Dave’s insightful comments. I’ve got plenty to say, don’t I? And placing the action on Cape Cod, a 70-mile-long spit of land filled with villages, sands, marshes and trees, surrounded on three sides by majestic, endless waters, is certain to inspire my writing. Think, Neil, think. What’s the most unusual and intriguing aspect of The Cape you’ve come upon over the years? I know — the dune shacks, those 20 or so primitive structures scattered among the ridiculously huge dunes of The Cape’s outer regions. Folks like Eugene O’Neill and Jack Kerouac and Jackson Pollock used to squirrel away in the shacks, seeking their Muses and churning out product. These days the shacks are in governmental hands, and are rented to modern-day hardy and artistic types (click here to read about the dune shacks). The shacks are isolated, not easy to find. The perfect scene of a crime.

Ah, the crime. What shall the crime be? Who will be the perpetrator, and who the victim? And what will be the reason that the crime occurred? You know, I believe it’s all coming together for me. Suddenly I’ve been zapped with a giant squirt of inspiration. Here goes:

I’m going to model the narrator/possible victim upon myself. Why not? I’ve gotten up close and pretty personal with several of the dune shacks over the years, walking around them, peering inside through their windows and admiring their no-facilities ambience. And for years I’ve been dreaming of the day when I’ll be spending substantial time in one of the shacks and its surrounding desert-like wilderness. Oh, the joy of peeing and dumping in sand pits or in the Atlantic Ocean! My life needs a major dose of that kind of back-to-nature reality.

Anyway, getting back to the plot. The time is autumn 2016, a Monday at 9 PM. The narrator, who goes by the nickname Cod Man, has been living for seven weeks in a shack located close to where the dunes peter out and meadows of beach grasses take over. A hop, skip and a jump beyond the grasses is the roiling Atlantic. Cod Man’s stay, per the rental agreement, is slated to end in one week. That situation is making Cod Man very nervous, because he had been confident that his shack experience would result in the creation of the book he’d put on the back burner for the past 10 years. Instead, the book, a novel about a Pennsylvania man whose world falls apart when his dog abandons him to take a job as chief mascot in Moscow’s Grand Hotel Trump, simply isn’t coming together. The reams of paper upon which Cod Man has been writing are, he fully knows, filled with dreck. “Holy crap!” Cod Man yells from his wobbly writing desk. “I’ve been out here for two months and have zilch to show for it. I’m bummed. Totally bummed.”

Moments later comes a pounding on the shack’s door. Standing outside in the moonlit night, a loaded pistol in his right hand, is Dick Hedd, Cod Man’s next door neighbor in Pennsylvania. Dick has tracked down Cod Man and is out for revenge. You see, three years earlier a friendly two-man game of Scrabble at Cod Man’s house had gone highly sour when Cod Man, upon throwing down two seven-letter words (halfwit and jackass) in the course of the evening, began to gloat. His gloating grew louder and wilder, reaching insane heights. Dick Hedd, certain that the seven-letter words were meant as commentaries on his personality, fumed. He stormed out the door before game’s end. And he never forgot or forgave Cod Man’s arrogance. The gents hadn’t talked since then. All the while, Dick waited patiently for his moment to avenge the foul deed. Among Cape Cod’s dunes that moment had arrived.

Little more need I say at this point. I have the book’s remaining plot lines worked out quite well. Everything fits. Everything is meaningful and believable.

Now all I have to do is write the entire story. Soon I shall begin.

(Don’t be shy about sharing this article or about adding your comments. Thanks.)

You should totally write a book. Maybe not THAT book, but definitely something. Your descriptions of Cape Cod are very emotive so starting there makes a lot of sense. This is probably the worse writing advice ever but I wouldn’t worry about a plot. Start with a guy in one of those shacks, write about him and then tell his story. The rest of it will come.

You can do it, Neil. My friend (another Dave) never wrote before, hated English, rarely reads fiction, is a software engineer, and he completed a book. The first draft was pretty dismal. He asked me to review and edit, which I did, so the second draft is even worse. But… people love crappy fiction these days. If your book is crappy, people will buy it. If it’s good, which I think it will be, people might buy it anyway!

Write it. You are a good writer. It took me five years to write my memoir and I only did it because my mother had Alzheimer’s Disease. It doesn’t matter if it’s any good or not; or weather anyone likes it or not. It only preserves my memories. Right now I am working on a fiction work about ( yes, just another) serial killer. So far, I think it sucks. But one never knows. Tom Wolfe, who was one of my patients, told me that as he went along in the process, he thought everything he wrote was no good and needed periodic pep talks from his friends to finish his works.

After the book, make a film and then cut an album. Then CB will be covered. (I’ll take care of the cigar). Thriller/Mystery stories always take place in certain locations, it brings the reader back. You might be onto something with your location.

You know, Norman Mailer wrote a mystery that he set on Cape Cod (Tough Guys Don’t Dance). And he wrote and directed the film version of it, too. I read the book, which is good, but haven’t seen the film.

You’re right. I read it a long time ago. I think Ryan O’Neal was in the film. There you go. I love novels that take place in the same location, Hiaasen, Florida. Leonard, Florida/Detroit. My Philly guy , Dexter. Why not Neil? I would recommend for you to take the plunge. (Just watched a Welsh series ‘Hinterland’, takes place in a small seaside community. Very well done and beautifully shot).

Here’s my favorite sentence in this post: “Suddenly I’ve been zapped with a giant squirt of inspiration.”
Clearly, once you have been zapped by a squirt, you should start thinking seriously about delivery.

Or . . .because this is blogworld, you could just keep doing what you are doing if it makes you happy.

Go for it! You write so well, and your blogs are very entertaining to read. I’m at a similar stage – laughing off friends’ suggestions that I try to write a book. ” About what?” I sputter. “Oh, you’ll think of something.” they smile confidently … then waltz off to do something else entirely.

I reckon you’re probably further on and better equipped to go in the book-scribing direction than me, but if you’re game, then so am I – why the hell not?

Only tip I can give is, if you’re enjoying it, keep on going to the next chapter and the next. If you’re not, go back to the blog. I finished correcting the proofs of my comic crime novel this morning (should be out in April) and it still made me laugh. Of course, that’s no guarantee it’ll make anyone else laugh, but we’ll see…

Good luck, and see you on the other side, but don’t let the blog suffer – it’s way too entertaining!

I believe it’s Cod Man…not Mann…though now that I think on it, Cod Mann is actually more clever and allows the narrator to suggest a literary or genealogical heritage from Thomas Mann. And I won’t even comment on Didk Hedd’s derivation.

Neil–this had me laughing out loud. Loved it. And 2 thoughts to share: you have a story there. And when you get around to writing it, count on dreck. Lots of it. But if you keep going back to it, you might see that it’s not quite dreck, maybe it’s more like a lumpy, amorphous, rock. And it just needs some shaping. And it you keep going back to it, you might see that shape coming around. And it will be something singular, and unique, and in that way, beautiful. Okay, way more than I wanted to say, but, there’s still the second thought. The quote from my writing calendar this month, from Goethe: “Dream no small dreams, for they have no power to move the hearts of men.”

Like I said, much wordier than I intended. Can I use this as my blog post this week?

Ah hah! You’re hooked. You’re doomed. My experience tells me that first you think about writing a book, then you share your idea of writing a book with others, then you’d bette,r by God, do it! Happy writing, Neil. Let me know when and where I can buy your book, because, based on your blog, I know I’ll like it.

I’ve got to tell you that a book is barely even a kernel of an idea at this point. It’s all I can do to keep producing articles at a one-per-week pace for this blog. Maybe a book will be in my future if I start eating my Wheaties.

Hi, Dianne. I’m looking for something snappy to say in response, but I can’t think of anything. It’s one of those days.
Anyway, I thank you for reading this story. And for adding your thoughts.
I’ll be seeing ya – – – –